Teenage Jealousy
by P.I.R
Summary: "She became jealous of Kate. She didn't know what the reasoning was behind it. She just knew she was jealous, and it had everything to do with him. Everything to do with..." EDITED


**EDITED! This time edited by ****Incendiarist****, who pointed out some things that got past both me and my original Beta, Kirikira, who I'm going to say sorry to for editing it again. I hope it doesn't annoy you, because people get scary when they are annoyed. *shivers in fear***

**I am sorry to say that my disclaimer was eaten, by a mouse. Does this mean I do own Mysterious Benedict Society? Oh... it doesn't. Oh well, I'll live.**

Constance didn't know when she started paying more attention to him.

It all started when she was fourteen. He was twenty-three. A nine year age gap. The likelihood of them getting together was, honestly, null.

He was too old for her, but she didn't care. Despite the age difference, she didn't stop. Small details like that rarely hindered Constance Contraire.

She still acted the same way around him. Her insults simply became less… insulting.

Nobody noticed.

She didn't even notice, really. She didn't know why she didn't, though. She noticed the little things. The things he tried to hide.

For instance; whenever love or dating was mentioned, he would get this look, like he had just swallowed a lemon. And in the blink of an eye, it would simply disappear.

When Constance was sixteen, Kate introduced her fiance, Tom. They all congratulated her, hugged her, their legs hitting her faithful red bucket.

His actions mimicked those of everyone else, but his eyes revealed to her what he truly felt inside.

Pain. Jealousy. Abandonment.

She became jealous of Kate. She didn't know what the reasoning was behind it. She just knew she was jealous, and it had everything to do with him.

Everything to do with a certain Mr. Sticky Washington.

That day. That day at the end of November. That day where the weak winter's sun streamed lethargically through the window. That day, she went into George's room, and did what she thought she was incapable of doing.

He was lying on his bed, staring up at the beige ceiling, his eyes puffy and red.

'George?' she ventured, sitting on the wooden chair next to the bed.

He didn't respond. Just kept staring at the ceiling.

Her blue eyes took in the details of his face; the features she knew so well. She had long ago memorised every dip and curve, every angle of his face.

'You've been crying,' she stated, seeing the damp trails running down his cheeks. She wasn't three years old anymore, and it showed. She was mature and caring now (Not that she would ever admit that to anyone.).

He said nothing, but his head dipped slightly in an almost imperceptible nod.

'Has it got something to do with Kate?' she asked.

'Not really.'

She smiled at his words. She loved his voice. It was the kind of voice that people liked listening to, like that of the English professor in college who always made you laugh. It had changed, no longer the monotonous, high-pitched voice of an eleven-year-old, not yet having hit puberty. It was the voice of a man.

She procured a tissue from her jacket, and reached forward to wipe his cheeks.

'Tell me what's wrong,' she said, her tone commanding, daring to be ignored. And she listened as he told her. It was a small, simple problem; the kind of problem expected from someone with a brain such as Sticky's.

He doubted himself. Doubted that he could find a woman who would love him for who he was.

Sticky had sat up while he'd been talking, calming down slightly, the tears coming to an end (Something for which Constance was grateful - she had run out of tissues.)

She squeezed his hand gently, and told him one of the oldest, most cliché, proverb in the love department. 'She's out there somewhere, Sticky. You just have to keep looking.' This wasn't exactly something you would expect to hear from Constance Contraire, but now was not the time for insulting poems.

And sat in silence for several moments, hands connected.

'Thank you, Constance,' Sticky eventually said.

Seeing that she was no longer needed, Constance stood. 'Just don't tell anyone, George Washington.'

A small smile danced across Sticky's face. 'Of course not.'

As time passed, the already close relationship between the two grew closer.

She met some of Sticky's girlfriends, but they never lasted for long. A week or two after Constance met them, they would invariably leave. Sticky began to grow desperate, believing that he was the reason that they left. Constance grew angry; she realised that they had only wanted fame as the lover of one of Benedict's special children, quickly leaving as they found out there were easier ways to reach celebrity status.

Constance began to realise that she felt more than just friendship for her long-time friend, but she tried hard to ignore those feelings. It would never work between them.

It wasn't until she had turned twenty-one that she made a mistake.

She had a little too much wine, despite Kate's warning, getting her point across by laying a hand on her expanding stomach, smiling faintly.

Constance hadn't listened. Constance never listened to advice on how to live her life.

When the baby shower was over, Sticky volunteered to drive her home, not having drank anything. He was more than willing to drive her to her small apartment just a few blocks from the house she had grown up in.

She couldn't remember what happened. But she knew it must not have been good.

Sticky had started to avoid her, dropping eye contact when they were in the same room, and rarely speaking to her.

She wanted to know what had happened, but at the same time she didn't. She was scared to find out.

Three days passed. She received the results for her final exam.

Received her doctorate in psychology.

Dr. Contraire. She liked the sound of that.

But she still didn't know why Sticky was avoiding her.

She would have to do the one thing she hated most to find out: ask someone.

And that's why she found herself outside Reynie's door in the pouring rain, hammering the knocker.

When he finally opened the door, she stormed in, her mood matching the weather raging outside.  
'Well?' he said. And it was all he had a chance to say before she turned on him.

'Why is Sticky avoiding me‽' she shouted. 'And put some clothes on!'

Reynie, dressed as he was in his pyjamas, merely closed the door. 'Don't you remember?' he asked.

The stare he received was answer enough

He chuckled. 'You really shouldn't drink, then.'

'What. Did. I. Do?' she asked pointedly. 'And I can't ask Sticky since he's ignoring me.' Her voice was as cold as ice.

Smirking, Reynie replied, 'You tried to seduce him.'

Constance froze; felt her face heating up.

'I…what?' she asked, her voice trembling slightly.

'You heard,' he replied simply. Although he had always been rather mature after puberty struck, he still gained several qualities common among men, none of which need be repeated here.

Constance's heartbeat sped up. Her brain went into overdrive. 'Where is he now?' she asked, though it was more to herself than to Reynie. She answered her own question, 'Probably at home, reading an encyclopædia, or something.'

Reynie stood there, watching and waiting.

Without saying another word, she turned and left. _It's just two streets over,_ she thought. _I won't get too wet.  
_  
She began running to his house, immediately regretting not to have asked Reynie to drive her there. She was cold and wet, and it wasn't helping her mood any.

She hammered on his door with an apparent intent to knock it off of its hinges.

'Let me in, George Washington!' she shouted. 'We need to talk!'

The door swung open, Sticky standing just inside. 'Constance?' he asked, beckoning her inside. An unnecessary gesture, as it were.

When she crossed the threshold, he closed the door, quieting the storm somewhat.

'I'm sorry,' Constance whispered, barely loud enough for Sticky to hear. 'I'm sorry for how I acted.'

Sticky didn't noticeably react, only slightly tensing.

'Why can't we go back to how we were?' she asked, laying a damp hand on his shoulder.

He reached for a cloth, and began cleaning his glasses.

'George?' Constance frowned, pushing on his shoulder to make him face her.

He avoided making eye contact, 'I miss you, George Washington. I need my friend back.' _Just a friend, _she thought sadly.

He suddenly found his feet to be rather interesting, staring at them intently.

'What if I wanted to be more than just friends?' he said, slightly embarrassed.

She smiled widely, eyes lighting in happiness. 'Then I will gladly be more than just friends, George Washington.'

**1387 words.**

**WHOOOOO! It's more IC and grammarly correct. Which is a good thing I believe, is it a good thing?**

**Thanks once more to ****Incendiarist**** for making this FanFiction of mine even **_**better. **_**And now I shall give you all earmuffs of coolness if you review. And a cookie with chocolate chips of doom. :)  
That proves it, way too much Invader Zim for me. :(**


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